


B-Side: Comin' Down Like Honey

by trashyeggroll



Series: Worth the Fall (ThunderGrace Boxing AU) [3]
Category: Black Lightning (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Honeymoon, No seriously there is no plot, Oral Sex, PWP, Quickies, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyeggroll/pseuds/trashyeggroll
Summary: Newlyweds Anissa and Grace honeymoon in Turks and Caicos. There's not a lot to do but enjoy the island paradise and each other's company... and they are quite frankly more than okay with that.





	B-Side: Comin' Down Like Honey

**Author's Note:**

> I get nervous writing ThunderGrace smut because like honestly... I feel unworthy. The baes deserve the best. Hope this is an enjoyable read!

It’s a good thing that they recently tied the knot, because sex with Anissa has  _ ruined _ Grace for anyone else.

Grace Washington-Choi is no spring daisy, and she has no shame about that. Women, men, nonbinary—she’d never been one to discriminate, as long as the attraction was there. For a fairly introverted person such as herself, sex was an easy shorthand for human connection… until she got pregnant, of course. Pregnancy and the subsequent dating baggage of having a baby at home had effectively ended her more satisfying sexual liberation years, but she had taken solace in the idea that she’d already had a full, satisfactory career in that area. Like she’d seen, heard, felt, and tasted it all, and the best she could hope for was a long-term partner who could at least make her come. 

And then… Anissa, who showed her what she had no idea she’d been missing. 

She can  _ never _ go back to clumsy hookups in the back of SUVs, a faceless stranger reeking of tequila pounding gracelessly between her legs. She can’t abide by ungainly fingers slipping against her in a bathroom stall, or letting someone bump and grind into her mouth behind a bar. She  _ needs _ Anissa’s tireless arms, supporting her whole weight as she comes against the bedroom wall, or maneuvering her into different positions like a grateful, gasping puppet. She needs the warm taste of Anissa’s mouth, the contrast of soft lips and hard muscle, the deftness of her fingers pressing into Grace’s g-spot or circling her clit. 

No one’s ever been so in tune with Grace’s body, so easily able to figure out what she wants and  _ needs, _ even if the artist herself is too caught up (or her mouth otherwise occupied) to give direction. Her wife could reduce her to a keening mess in a matter of minutes, or drag out her pleasure for hours.

Grace has never  _ wanted _ someone like this before, either.  _ Every _ outfit is the best thing she’s ever seen on Thunder, and  _ every _ time she peels her wife out of said clothes, it’s the same thrill, getting her engines roaring before Anissa’s so much as touched her. As for another surprise change, she used to loathe any form of PDA, but now finds herself reaching for Anissa’s hand or the small of her back again and again, no matter where they are, helpless to deny the urge like that first not-quite-date on Bourbon Street.  _ Don’t wanna lose you. _ That sentiment certainly hasn’t changed one iota. 

So, marrying a professional athlete certainly has its obvious advantages, physically speaking… but she also deeply loves every inch of the powerful woman because she’s  _ Anissa, _ the unequivocal love of her life. 

‘Love of her life.’ She used to scoff and turn her nose up at those sickly sweet phrases, but…

Once again… and then, Anissa. 

Aside from her daughter, the boxer is the only person or thing in this world that Grace loves to the point of aching, overfull and vulnerable to so, so much pain if anything ever happened to them. It’s ridiculous and terrifying, but… euphoric at the same time. The athlete’s sponsorships and celebrity are nice, sure—but more so than a rise in station, the most significant change in Grace’s life is no longer being alone. She has a partner, a teammate, a  _ wife _ to help her when she needs it, or just  _ be there, _ without fail. That cares about her so deeply that Grace stopped questioning it long ago. 

But… the artist is not turning her nose up at the less  _ abstract _ perks of her marriage, either. 

Truth be told, Grace hadn’t even heard of Turks and Caicos until Lynn presented them with plane tickets to the archipelago north of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. She definitely hadn’t heard of the small, quiet island where they were staying, accessible only by local airlines or private boat, but South Caicos is nothing if not an isolated  _ paradise, _ with pristine white sand beaches, bright tropical flowers, sprawling green shrubbery and short trees, almost no car traffic. It might even feel a little  _ too _ remote if not for the efforts of the locals to create a luxurious experience for visitors. 

Her mother-in-law had spared no expense in booking them a lavish private villa situated on the crest of an isolated peninsula, and Grace tried not to think of Lynn’s part in this too much as they made up for a sleepy, quiet wedding night all over the stunning house for their honeymoon. 

Like right now, looking out over the infinity pool and, beyond, rolling ocean waves. Grace is reclining on a patio lounge chair, sunglasses on like she’s sunbathing… and she can’t get over the hedonistic thrill of Anissa’s tongue between her legs with nothing but open sky above them. 

Her burlesque shows at the Ruby Red meant being sexual in public was something old hat to Grace, but she’d never  _ actually _ had sex outside, and the (however unlikely) chance that someone could pass by and see what they’re up to, how Anissa’s making her whimper and moan… She’s lowkey into it, to say the least, and soaking her wife’s chin with the evidence. 

While her tongue massages under and along Grace’s clit, Anissa lifts an arm to press two fingers inside her, and the artist arches for more with a ragged intake of breath. She feels the boxer’s fingertips pressing and searching, gritting her teeth when Anissa inevitably finds that perfect spot and makes her body sing, muscles seizing and releasing as she comes. Loudly, exultingly. Because she can. 

Anissa seems appreciative; a particularly strong aftershock shudders through Grace’s body when she notices the furious movement of her wife’s hand tucked between her legs, and then the boxer lifts her head to groan into Grace’s leg, eyes screwed shut as she brings herself over the edge, hips jerkily thrusting into the frame of the chair. 

“Shit,” sighs Anissa, melting into dead weight on her legs and panting. “Babe, I could do that… for hours… every day.”

Chuckling breathlessly, Grace reaches for the glass of ice water sitting on a chairside table and takes a few healthy gulps. “I think I’d die of dehydration.”

“But what a way to go,” teases Anissa as she climbs up to rest her head on the artist’s shoulder, the sticky fingers of a hand splaying over Grace’s chest. 

And then they doze for awhile, naked and curled together in the sunlight, with salt-scented ocean breezes swirling soothingly over their skin. The profound quiet of the small island required white noise or music for the Big Easy residents to sleep at night, but in the bright of day, and with absolutely nothing they should have been doing instead, it’s a balm to Grace’s tired soul. All she can hear is the rustle of wind through sparse greenery, the rumble of waves rising and falling, the occasional bird call or donkey baying, and Anissa’s soft breathing against her neck. 

Inside and out, their secluded, six-person villa is all reclaimed wood, limestone tile, and white paint, with a merciful lack of kitschy nautical decorations. There’s a professional grade kitchen and pre-stocked pantry, and no matter where you stand in the house, the view out of floor to ceiling windows in every direction is breathtaking. Still, it’s close enough to the island’s one resort that they can take a quick drive in the villa’s private car to amenities and civilization if they needed them.

After finally dragging themselves out of the warm sun and putting on the bare minimum of clothing, they treat themselves to a couple’s massage at the resort, followed by a seafood lunch, and then snorkeling along the third biggest coral reef in the world. Anissa gets an underwater picture with a parrot fish, and it isn’t until hours later that they realize there’s a shark silhouette lurking in the background—not that it really mattered, but the effect was perfect nonetheless.

There’s a nap, warm and snug in bed with the windows thrown open back at the villa, before Grace fries fresh soft shell crab for dinner, absolutely stinking up the whole house, but also  _ absolutely _ worth it in final effect: crispy, salty, and unctuous.

They FaceTime with Hanh and David (with shirts on now, leaning over the phone propped on the kitchen island), and then Anissa takes a shower after starting a playlist from her phone, which echoes across the minimalist space from a full-house speaker system. The fighter’s been in a SZA-heavy mood since they arrived, and Grace can’t say it doesn’t fit the...  _ mood _ of their honeymoon, too. 

And of course, the soundtrack is effective, thudding along in time with her heartbeat, so Grace tosses her sleep shirt on the bed and walks naked into the bathroom, which has a large tub and a separate, clear glass shower with waterfall showerhead. The boxer thankfully doesn’t startle or slip when their eyes meet; she just takes a step back to the wall, making space for the artist to slide under the hot spray with her. There’s a moment where Anissa’s arm twitches up like she’s worried about her shower cap, but then she relaxes, and her face tilts into an expectant grin. She  _ knows _ what she looks like, with glittering beads of water dripping down the valleys of her body, the line of her pectoral muscles, between her perfect kissable breasts, and along the grooves of her abs before disappearing into thick curls at the apex of her legs. Even though water is pouring down her face, Grace has to lick her lips. 

Tendrils of steam rise around them, fogging up the glass, as Grace wordlessly ducks to press her lips to Anissa’s collarbone, hands holding the fighter’s wrists against the tile wall at her sides. She traces the enticing line between tensing pecs with her tongue, ghosting around dark brown nipples and smiling when she just barely hears the boxer suck in a hissing breath. Her eyes roll up to meet her wife’s, finding them hazy and unfocused.

It doesn’t take long to rip a keening orgasm out of Anissa, with two fingers between her legs and her tongue wandering between the fighter’s pebbled nipples, occasionally dragging up to dip in Anissa’s ear—but she has to stop when they nearly both lose their footing on the tile, and she remembers perhaps the only downside of fucking a professional athlete: Injuries aren’t just funny stories later; they’re a career risk. 

So Grace gives her sea-salt hair a quick wash, letting Anissa quietly lather her back, belly, and legs with sweet-smelling soap, vanilla and honey. Even though there’s a mutually agreed pause to their ongoing marriage consummation, the artist loses her capacity for coherent thought when Anissa slowly kneels on the floor to wash Grace’s lower legs and feet, reverent and gentle. The fighter peppers kisses up her shins, around her knees, and along her inner thighs, until Grace has to reluctantly push at her head with a breathless reminder they need to  _ actually _ finish showering before more fun can be had. 

Drying off is no easier, with an amorous professional boxer rubbing against her back, world-class hands wandering her front over the towel, and eventually they just fall into the huge bed still dripping with water, which is quickly accompanied by a different kind of moisture entirely. Anissa holds her wrists above her head with one vice-like hand, the other rolling her clit between her fingers, circling and applying pressure until the artist is reduced to whimpering and writhing for more, and then the boxer makes a move for their suitcases. 

—

They’d gone back and forth on the subject of  _ props _ for the weeks leading up to their wedding, and last minute, both said  _ fuck it  _ and tossed the items in a bag. Worst case scenario, a TSA screener would blab to a tabloid about their travel priorities, but… it’d be worth it. They were consenting adults, anyway. 

Grace watches from the bed as Anissa briefly struggles, and then manages to secure the jock-style leather harness to her hips, the o-ring-secured cock bobbing excitedly between her legs. The fighter’s belly tightens with pressure as she watches her wife’s eyes darken, shifting on the bed until she’s on her back, propped up against the pillows, legs lazily splayed open—for her, Anissa’s possessive side whispers.  _ For me. _

At home, they don’t often have the time or the energy to use the toys they keep in a locked box in their bedroom closet. Usually, they’re too tired or too pressed for time, or even just too worried about a toddler bursting through the door at an inopportune moment. None of those things are a problem tonight. 

Anissa kneels on the mattress, wrapping one hand around Grace’s hip and using the other to push her knees a little wider. A choked groan drifts down from farther up the bed, but Anissa’s attention is zeroed in on glistening red-brown lips, petaled open invitingly and swollen from her earlier attentions. She almost mindlessly traces the edges of her wife’s labia, just close enough to feel the sticky wetness of her arousal. 

_ “Baby,” _ hisses Grace, grasping for her wrist, but Anissa catches her hand and pointedly presses it into the sheets. She hums, pleased, that it stays in place when she lets go.

Resuming her leisurely pace, the fighter slips two fingers down, pushing in just enough to gather the warm slick waiting for her. She lifts her gaze to meet hooded brown eyes as she spreads the wetness over the head of the toy, and Grace’s hands twitch, but she keeps them flat as her chest rises and falls rapidly. 

“You want this?” husks Anissa, feeling punch-drunk on the heavy air. She gives the length jutting from between her legs a slow pump with a loose fist. 

“Yes,” whines the artist, piteous. “I want it. Want you.”

That’s good enough for her, and Anissa drops her hips, one hand lining up the cock, and then she pushes slowly forward. The head sinks inside easily, prompting Grace to let out a relieved groan, and the fighter nips at her neck when the sound spikes to a sharp gasp. The toy they’d chosen for this trip is big, girthy and ridged, and Anissa pauses when her wife lifts a hand to grasp at her shoulders with a whimper. “Wait, wait— _ fuck.” _

With the flared base of the cock applying pressure to her clit, Anissa can  _ feel _ the resistance of Grace’s muscles, and she bites harder into the soft, sweet-smelling skin at the base of that elegant neck. The flash of pain seems to distract the artist enough that the toy slips in another inch, and Anissa lets go of her hold, soothing the angry purple-red marks from her teeth with her lips.

“Okay. O-kay,” breathes Grace, eyes screwed shut as she sips at the cool night air. “F-fuck, I’m out of practice…” 

“Relax. I got you. Just relax.” Anissa lifts her shoulders and braces on her elbows, careful not to jostle the half-buried cock further. She twists one hand around to brush her palm over Grace’s silky black hair, peppering her forehead and cheeks with soft kisses and murmuring consoling nonsense against her bronze skin.

Eventually, the artist’s whole body loosens, and Grace cants her hips up for more. With that sign of consent, Anissa pushes her hips and doesn’t stop until they’re slotted completely together, long legs folding around her waist as Grace’s back arches.

“Okay?” prompts the boxer, testingly grinding forward and smiling when it pulls a moan from her wife’s throat. 

This time, Grace just nods fervently lips hanging open, and Anissa takes that as the go-ahead to start moving. She begins slowly, pulling about halfway out before pressing firmly back in, eyes glued to the way her wife’s tongue slides over her lips, ears tuned to nothing but the increasingly sweet, needy nosies Grace is making. When she picks up the pace, the stinging rake of the artist’s nails down her back spurs her even faster, hips rhythmically snapping forward and dragging back, until just the bulbed head rests inside, letting Grace  _ just _ feel the pull of its width at her entrance. 

The repetitive movement shortly becomes almost subconscious, muscle memory, like when she’s working a speed bag, and her mind is free to lavish attention on the beautiful woman beneath her. Grace  _ Washington _ -Choi. Hers, to have and hold forever. Anissa kisses along her neck, swirling her tongue in the dip of her collarbone, and then lifts her head to admire breasts swaying in time with her thrusts. She shifts her weight to one elbow to lift her other hand to one of them, moaning at the heavy softness and the hardened nipple poking into her palm. 

Grace makes a vaguely frustrated noise, and Anissa smiles, lowering her arm to trace the web of stretch marks on her belly—battle scars from the act of creating life—and then grips the artist’s hip for leverage, pulling Grace’s body back as hers snaps forward. 

The boxer fucks her through two orgasms like that without losing steam, until Grace clumsily splays her fingers over Anissa’s chest and pushes with purpose. Hips stuttering to a stop, Anissa lifts her head, panting. Grace applies more pressure with her hand, and the fighter hazily follows her lead. The artist winces when the cock slides out, but keeps her hand in place until they’ve switched positions, with Anissa on her back and Grace’s legs bracketing her thighs.

—

Holding the toy in place, Grace lifts to her knees and settles over it, watching her wife’s face as she sinks down with hands braced on muscular shoulders. Her eyes want to close at the new angle, the slight burning stretch and the  _ fullness _ threatening to crowd the air out of her lungs again, but she forces them to stay open. Anissa’s staring unblinkingly between their legs as the purple-blue shaft disappears inch by inch, and when Grace’s  _ hips _ meet hers, her hands shoot out to squeeze the artist’s thighs.

An experimental rock of her weight drives a groan out of Grace’s throat, but her muscles flutter and adjust until the near-discomfort of the pressure dissolves into pleasure. She uses her legs to lift halfway up the thick length before dropping back down just  _ so, _ the head of the toy skidding perfectly across her sensitive front wall. Anissa’s steady hands slip around to her hips, facilitating the smooth movement, but she can only keep herself flat for a few minutes before she rears up, capturing a nipple between her teeth as she starts thrusting up when Grace slams herself down. 

The position’s reminiscent of their first night together, muffled and giggling on Gambi’s couch after Thunder’s victory over Katana, and ludicrously, emotion pulls at Grace’s eyes as she looks into Anissa’s dark brown ones. This, she realizes in with sudden, startling clarity, isn’t something she’d considered possible before Anissa. Sex and romance had once seemed squarely antithetical to one another. Mutually exclusive. But somehow, even though the wet, smacking sound of their bodies coming together and the desperate noises from their mouths are as obscene as anything, she’s overcome with affection for her stubborn, loyal, charming wife, who also looks  _ Like That™️ _ and fucks just as well, and if she could form complex sentences at the moment, Grace is sure she’d be rambling like a lovesick mess. 

“You’re so beautiful, G,” Anissa’s muttering against her lips as if to make up for it, tireless arms taking over most of the work of hauling Grace up and dragging her back down as her hips surge to meet her. “So gorgeous. I love making you feel good, seeing you lose control…” 

_ “So _ good,” the artist chokes out, pressing her forehead into Anissa’s. The praise is making her head swim, ratcheting up the pressure in her lower belly. “So close, baby, so—“ The last dissolves into a whimper as the words spur her wife’s hips into a ruthless rhythm, and just like that, she’s coming again, groaning against Anissa’s lips as relief and pleasure splash up her spine, her body helplessly clenching and releasing around the still-pounding thickness inside her. 

When Anissa presses up a final time, breath hitching and twisting into a long, low moan, Grace runs her hands over her wife’s shoulders and back, kissing her sharp jaw as she grinds down to help Anissa through her climax. 

A heavy stillness settles over the room, and they hold onto each other for awhile, upright and breathing deeply with eyes closed. But eventually, the fighter falls back to the pillows, and Grace carefully lifts up until the toy slips out, leaving behind a delicious, burning ache. She collapses onto her wife’s chest then, sliding her hips to one side, and Anissa manages to unbuckle and wriggle free of the harness, tossing it over the side of the bed.

“You okay?” the fighter eventually whispers, groggy and hoarse.

“Baby… I am  _ great,” _ sighs Grace in an embarrassingly high pitch, chuckling in spite of herself. “I should pee, but… not sure I can walk.”

The artist cranes her neck down and sees a smug, self-satisfied look on her gorgeous face, and she only just barely manages to avoid rolling her eyes as she painstakingly gets to her feet. Grace tries to keep her gait as normal as possible as she walks to the bathroom, but knows she isn’t doing a very good job of it when she still hears Anissa snort back laughter. 

—

Despite being a world class athlete, working out six to eight hours most days, getting punched in the face for a living… Anissa wakes up  _ sore _ on the fourth day of her honeymoon. She can tell before she even moves, with a deadweight Grace sprawled across her body and keeping her firmly flat on the mattress. Sunlight’s peeking through the curtains of the master bedroom, and Anissa is at least pinned close enough to the edge of the mattress to reach the TV remote on the bedside table. She clicks it on, thankful it starts some cooking show at a low volume, and soon feels wakefulness return to Grace’s muscles. 

The artist groans with a tone of pain that matches Anissa’s body feel as she flops to the side, looking absurdly gorgeous in the dim light. 

“You did it. You broke me,” sighs Grace in a strained voice. “Sexed to injury.”

Chuckling, Anissa haltingly sits up and rubs her face. Her fingers still smell like sex, and she reflexively smirks at her wife. “We’ll call it a draw. I feel like I went ten rounds, and lost.”

Grace scoffs. “Did we  _ not _ go ten rounds yesterday?”

They take turns whining and being dramatic about their aches and pains until the soaking tub fills with hot water, which soothes away some of the pain as Anissa slides carefully into it. Grace makes fairly pornographic sounds as she sinks in next to her, which is  _ quite _ unfair at the moment. 

“Aren’t we supposed to do a bike excursion today?” 

Anissa looks up and frowns. “Yes… but that’s a hard no from me. I’ll call the resort.”

“Thank  _ God.” _

Instead, they take a trip via their rental car to Cockburn Harbor, the main residential village on the island. It features gorgeous Bermudan architecture and a layered history reflecting its status as a British territory, including the name of the town itself—after British governor Francis Cockburn. Once upon a time, the settlement’s primary industry had been sea salt, but all evidence of that past life sits silent and rusted in the present. 

They have lunch at the Sunset Cafe Bar & Grill, a storied establishment that lives up to its reputation as they gorge themselves on a seafood platter, trying cracked conch and conch fritters for the first time. An older couple sitting nearby watches them with small smiles, hands entwined, and Anissa returns a grin as Grace laughs, loud and surprised, at one of her jokes. It never fails to make her chest puff out a little with pride when she can get those belly laughs out of her usually fairly reserved wife, perfect white teeth flashing as her nose wrinkles.

“Okay, your turn,” prompts Grace, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Something I don’t know about you yet.”

Anissa tilts her head and hums as she thinks. Grace certainly knows more details, in sum, about her life than even Lynn or her sister, but they’d been playing this game on and off all week, resulting in some interesting tidbits about Grace’s history to follow up on… once they weren’t so sore. 

“Nothing?”

“How about…” The boxer clears her throat. “Oh! I know—I’ve always wanted a dog.”

Grace raises one dark brow, but her expression is inscrutable. “So you… still want one, now?”

“Why not?”

“Not saying I’m against it.” The artist flashes a tilted grin and teases, “You promise to walk it, feed it, pick up its poop?”

“I think they have an app for all three of those things now.” Anissa winks and takes another bite of fritter. “I could take it on my runs. It’d be nice for Hanh to grow up with a dog, too, you know?”

“Uh oh. I know that look.” Chuckling, Grace leans back in her chair. “I planted an idea, didn’t I?”

The fighter shrugs, offering a carefree smile. “We can talk about that more later. Not like I want to get one on our way home from the airport.”

They stop by a couple grocery stores for souvenirs and some basic supplies before driving back north again to their villa. There’s a nap, and then they build a bonfire on the beach, managing to stoke a respectable blaze by the time the sky starts to turn orange-pink, darkening.

After roasting some fish for dinner, Anissa feels like the kids from  _ Laguna Beach _ as she sits with Grace on the sand, watching the sun sink behind an ocean horizon, a blanket wrapped around both their shoulders. 

“You know,” murmurs the artist, dragging her eyes away from the dazzling light show playing across the water to look at Anissa. “All this paradise is nice, but… We could’ve gone to Pittsburgh, and I’d be over the moon to just  _ be _ with you. The infinity pool is pretty great, though.”

The fighter wants to chuckle, but a rush of affection and warmth hits her in the chest, and she leans over to capture Grace’s lips in a kiss. Unlike the night before, there’s no urgency here, just a fading evening and the smell of her wife’s skin filling her nose, the feel of slender hands cupping her cheeks to keep her close, the ever-present sound of waves rising and falling like so many sighing breaths.

The world that awaits them at home is tumultuous and nearly constantly  _ go-go-go, _ but… tonight, and for their two remaining days here, all she has to do is love her wife. Luckily, she seems to be pretty damn good at it. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you are following this series in full, the third chapter of Pierce II should be up by the end of next week.
> 
> yell at me on tumblr [@trashyeggroll](https://trashyeggroll.tumblr.com/)


End file.
